Infinitum
by Sylph Dancer
Summary: Nearly a year and a half after the Accords, the Avengers are split beyond repair, with Steve looking to reclaim Bucky and Tony struggling to keep his team and his company afloat. When news of the dangerously powerful Infinity Stones reaches the factions, however, it comes time for the Avengers to resolve their differences or risk the destruction of their universe.
1. Ab Irato

**Warning: graphic depictions of panic attacks.**

 **Summary: Natasha informs, Pepper dwells, and Tony has lost all hope.**

* * *

Work is hard.

Coaxing a former patriotic symbol/super-soldier vigilante to return to the U.S. to supply information is harder.

They sit at a corner cafe in Manhattan, swallowed up by the lunch rush. It's hot, shimmering waves of heat and dazzling sunshine hinting at the beginning of summer. "You know, if I wanted something so watery, I would've just ordered coffee instead of water," Natasha muses, glancing at her companion out of the corner of her eye.

Steve keeps his gaze fixed on the street, eyes scanning. "That so?"

It's been over a year since the Accords were signed. A year since Captain America and his allies have gone underground, picking off leftover HYDRA agents and fending off random extraterrestrial attacks. A year since she and Tony were left as the last Avengers, since T'Challa returned to Wakanda with the Winter Soldier in his custody. At least, that's as much as she knows, since Tony managed to bring her back out of hiding. Tony had known, still knows, that he's never matched up to what Steve is to her, and had been smart enough to clam up, keeping what little information he had out of her reach. She wouldn't be surprised if he knew, or had guessed, what she was doing, but she was surprised that he hadn't confronted her about it yet.

She hadn't hesitated, all those months ago, when she'd finally found Steve after months of searching, offering insider information. She'd arrived in Peru with Stark, prepared to fight off a band of enormous bird-like creatures, only to catch sight of Wanda before the girl disappeared, leaving a decimated flock of birds that took less than an hour to round up and destroy. After giving Stark the slip, all it had taken was a few calls and retracing her footsteps, and she'd run—literally—into Clint just outside of Lima and convinced him to bring her to Steve.

Just to keep you updated, she'd said. To be honest, she was surprised when he agreed so readily. There was a small, bitter part of her that had doubted, knew how little he trusted her. She wonders, sometimes, if she'd lost it, or if he'd never really given it to her to begin with. The thought made something ache in the pit of her stomach.

Not that it mattered. These days, no one trusted anyone.

Natasha sighs, nudging her coffee away with a faint air of disgust. "Come on, Rogers, I'm sure Sam would have already noticed if I were being followed." She cocked her head. "Good to see you, Sam. Well, sort of."

She knew he was watching from the building across the street, armed just in case. Natasha imagined him greeting her back with a nod, and briefly wondered if he'd grown a beard. Doubtful that he'd been given much chance to shave.

Steve looks down, a wry, tired smile briefly crossing his expression. "This isn't easy, Nat."

She waves a hand dismissively. "Yeah, yeah, worried about Stark catching on—" She ignores his brief flinch, "—worried about Captain America getting caught. Can't I enjoy this?"

He raised a brow, fingers flickering across the surface of the table. "You seem to have forgotten that some of us don't have that luxury anymore. No thanks to you." Or Tony, his gaze says.

She looks away. "How's Clint?"

"You're stalling."

"Steve." He sighs.

"Fine. Little worn out, but we all are these days." She grips her mug, swirling around its dark contents.

"Not much to report this time," she says. "Fighting off all those little green men, same as you. Bit tough, but we get by. Neither of us are team players." Steve mumbles something under his breath. Stark's been trying to recruit, but … Not a lot of support for people like us these days." She swallows. "I can tell it's harder on him then he's willing to admit."

Steve raises an eyebrow, leaning back in his chair. "You know we'd come back if he asked."

"Come on, Rogers." Nat leans forward, determined. "None of us are doing well. I'm desperate. Stark's desperate, even if he'll never admit it. You know these attacks are getting worse."

We are, she thinks absently. Since the first time the Avengers had fought together—the Battle of Manhattan—there had always been strange things, new monsters to fight, aliens and conspiracies, mutants and experiments, but the past few months had shown a strong uptick in hostiles of the extraterrestrial kind. As much as she'd pried and wheedled and charmed, she hadn't been able to get more information beyond rumors, none of which led to anything more than dead ends.

"If Tony still has that burner phone—"

"You're assuming he hasn't thrown it away already, and that he wouldn't be too proud to use it," Natasha interrupts, frowning at him. "You didn't make things easy, either, Rogers."

Steve pinches the bridge of his nose. "I'm sorry. It's been difficult lately."

"You're running out of places to go. You don't have to do this."

He laughed, but it was a bitter thing, a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "You're right, we shouldn't."

"You could come back."

"Nat." His voice is firm. "I'm not going to sign the Accords. Not after—"

"After Barnes?"

Steve is silent for a moment, gaze distant. "If there's nothing I need to know, I need to get going," he says. "If you or ... Tony need us, for real, then just ... give me a call. But I'm not going to waste my time where I'm not welcome."

Much as she knows her face doesn't show it, Nat wants to bang her head against the table in frustration. "Bucky's in S.H.I.E.L.D. custody."

Steve's entire demeanor changes. She almost smiles at the way his eyes glisten, lips just barely parted, whole body trembling. For a man so large, he almost seems fragile. "You—"

"T'Challa decided to relinquish custody of him to S.H.I.E.L.D.," Natasha tells him. "He's back in the States, though I can't exactly tell you where." She sighs. "Look, I know how much Bucky means to you. I really do. But—before you do anything stupid, please stop and think, okay? Everyone is expecting you to go after him. Think this through."

Steve doesn't answer. His eyes are distant, longing, and for a moment, Natasha almost regrets telling him the truth. Then he's rising to his feet and nudging his cap lower. "Sam's getting nervous."

No, scratch that, she does regret telling him the truth. Still, Natasha doesn't stop him, still swirling her watery coffee. "You could stay for lunch."

"Not looking for trouble." Then he's gone, walking off without looking back. Natasha watches him disappear into the crowd, staring long after she loses sight of him.

"Right," she grumbles under her breath. "Because you know all about looking for trouble, don't you, Rogers?"

* * *

 _In retrospect_ , Tony thinks wearily, _it probably would have been a better idea not to come in the suit_.

Not that he'd had much choice. He'd spent the morning blasting at hordes of odd, reptilian creatures in France, and had barely finished another exhausting debriefing when F.R.I.D.A.Y. had alerted him that Morales was waiting and that he was fifteen minutes late to their meeting.

Even so, he regrets not at least washing the suit down, as it's covered in rather foul-smelling purple goop, which, considering they're sitting at a bench in the middle of Central Park, means the two of them are given a very wide berth.

"I'm not joining the Avengers." Miles crossed his arms, staring Tony down with a stubborn glare. From his uniform and backpack, it's clear he's just come from school. "Hate to break it to you, but I enjoy my privacy. And, uh, not imprisoning everyone who disagrees with me."

Tony pinched the bridge of his nose, resisting the urge to punch the kid in the face. "Listen, Underoos. You weren't my first pick, either. I wouldn't be asking if—"

"If you weren't desperate?" He scoffed. "I knew you were going to ask. Word on the street is you've been asking everyone on your little list. I only came here to tell you no."

It's not my list, Tony wants to scream. "Morales—"

"Not on your life." Miles stands, shouldering his backpack. "Now if you'll excuse me, I'm missing chess practice." He turns on his heel.

"I'm leaving the Avengers."

Miles freezes, turning back slowly. Tony shuts his eyes. If he were honest, he'd admit why, but instead he says, "You may have noticed we're not doing so hot with me in charge." Tony's laugh is as bitter as the lie tastes, and he clears his throat. "Funny story, I used to just be a consultant. I only became an Avenger when they were out of options for people to throw down against a couple aliens. Saved some lives, you know. Now I'm in the one in charge, and we're out of options again."

"How long?" Miles' voice is quiet.

"One year, tops. Two, if I'm lucky." He opens one eye. "In case you were wondering why I seem, uh, _desperate_."

"I …" Miles seems to hesitate. Around them, people are starting to notice that Iron Man is sitting in the middle of Central Park, and a crowd is forming. "Man, I'm sorry, I—"

"Don't be." Tony straightens as someone starts to jeer. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got places to be, people to terrorize. You know the drill. Later, Underoos."

Before Miles can say another word, he lowers his face mask and shoots up, ignoring the drinks and wrappers that are flung after him with sneering shouts of "liar" and "government whore" and "murderer".

He's used to it by now, after all.

"Boss, Colonel Rhodes has returned from his latest physical therapy session and is awaiting you in the penthouse," FRIDAY tells him. "His Royal Highness T'Challa is with him."

"Got it. Thanks, FRIDAY." Tony takes a deep breath. "Do me a favor and have a cup of coffee ready for me when I get back."

T'Challa is standing politely by the elevators, listening intently to a laughing Rhodey when Tony arrives back at the tower, landing a bit too hard. Tony forces a smile, spreading his arms as the suit comes off. "His Royal Pantherness, in the flesh."

"Mr. Stark." T'Challa laughs lightly, shaking Tony's hand and patting his shoulder. "I do wish you wouldn't call me that."

"Right, right." Tony keeps his smile plastered. He turns, heading into the kitchen. "Want some coffee?"

"No, thank you." T'Challa follows him, calm as ever.

"Saw you on the news," Rhodey said casually. "How was Nice?"

"Good. Fair weather. A bit too scale-y for my taste, but what can you do." Tony shrugs, keeping his eyes fixed on his mug as he inhales his coffee.

There's a tense silence. Tony hasn't spoken with the Wakandan king since he'd learned the man had granted the others amnesty in Wakanda. There wasn't anything he could do—at the time, he was too busy tracking down Natasha and convincing her to come out of hiding and rejoin the Avengers to try to contact any of his former teammates, let alone pick any fights. Now, however, with his time dwindling, fully aware Nat would leave him for his teammates in a heartbeat, he's desperate. T'Challa speaks, clearing his throat. "I know why you called me here, Mr. Stark."

"Mm." Tony tilts his mug towards the man. "Pepper's already told you. Honestly, I'm surprised with how we're progressing in the clean energy industry. You'd think we'd be doing better, but the market's always a been a bit shaky, if you know what I mean—"

"Mr. Stark." T'Challa's voice is firm. "I cannot join your team."

Tony takes another sip of his coffee. It burns and leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. Not enough sugar, he thinks. "What makes you think we need your help?"

T'Challa inclines his head, eyes intent. "As much as I appreciate your offer, I'm not at liberty to accept it. You must understand, my country needs me, Mr. Stark. I cannot abandon my people for the sake of taking up a role created for a single goal."

Tony waves him off. "Duty calls, a responsibility to your people, blah blah blah. Well, it was worth a shot." He downs the rest of his mug. "Now, I'm pretty sure Pepper's got a mile of paperwork I need to sign, so if you'll excuse me."

T'Challa moves forward before Tony can sidestep him and grasps his arm gently. "My country's advancements have always been … separate from the outside world. Even as an outsider, Stark Industries would be most compatible with my people in terms of both technology and philosophy."

Tony forces a smile, shrugging him off. "Thanks for the heads-up, Pantherness. I'm sure you've got places to be."

The king sighs, nodding slightly. He pauses for a moment, opening his mouth, then shakes his head. "You must know—I have spoken with S.H.I.E.L.D.," he says quietly. "They have offered to take custody of Sergeant … the operative. I believe they intend for him to return to the United States."

Everything seems to tunnel out from beneath him. "Huh." Tony tries to force his hands to stop shaking. "Seems a bit funny, all this moving around."

There was a time when Tony would have wanted the man who killed his parents to face justice, to stand trial for his crimes after everything he had done. Even with Natasha's constant hinting and encouragement, he doesn't know if he can ever accept the idea that Barnes is truly innocent. Tony would never admit it aloud, but—he's afraid. And how could he not be? Brainwashed or not, Barnes still destroyed his life, violently and through the death of his parents. Howard had never been innocent, but his mother had never deserved to die the way she did, and Jarvis ... More than anything, Tony just wants the Winter Soldier to be far, far away from him, not a threat to anyone or anything. Wakanda hadn't been his first option, but it was better than nothing, even with his old teammates lurking there. Bringing him back to the states would guarantee that ... Rogers would drag his team after Barnes and wake him up.

"You understand, Mr. Stark, that I have chosen to accept their offer, for security reasons, of course. I'm sure you're aware, recently, in my country, of your friends—"

"He's not my friend," Tony snarls, then clenches his jaw, inhaling deeply. "I get it. Hey, thanks for the heads up. If you'll excuse me."

Without another word, he—walks, Tony Stark does not flee—to the elevator, ignoring Rhodey's calls and mashing at the buttons with trembling fingers. He sags against the wall as the doors close and exhales shakily, trying to calm himself down.

A flash of red and blue—

No. Tony tries to shake himself. Not now.

A silvery glint, the smell of blood. Metal fists slamming against the joints of his arm, the arc reactor on his chest, sharp and harsh and unrelenting, pain blossoming along his arms, his spine—

And he's watching his mother screaming in terror, in agony, and he can feel nothing but rage, washing over him in waves, drowning him—

There are voices, and he can't focus, there is metal everywhere, glass, and the hands take everything from him, destroy his repulsors, and he's trapped, cowering as they break his spine, as they aim for his chest, tearing at his reactor, heart racing frantically as the shield slams against it over and over and over and he can't breathe, he can't breathe—

Vaguely, he can hear someone saying something to him, steady and calm, and he grasps desperately at it, struggling to inhale. Something in him is screaming at him to breathe, but he can't.

The voice is saying something, soft and soothing, and it's Pepper. She's telling him to breathe. Inhale, two, three, four. Exhale, two, three, four. Inhale, two, three, four. Exhale, two, three, four.

Breathe.

Breathe.

Breathe.

He is not at the outpost. He is at his tower, with Pepper and Rhodey and all of the good people who work there. He is safe.

Pepper's face swims back into view. She's smiling, but her eyes are red, and he can see traces of anger in them. "Hey, Tony. You're safe," she whispers, and he stares at her.

He's on the ground, out of the elevator, on the twenty-second floor of his tower. Around him is a tiny crowd of people, ever-watchful. Sarah, a worker from the mailroom. George and Akiko, who work in communications. Jose, one of Pepper's assistants.

"Are you all right, Mr. Stark?" someone asks—Sarah—and he opens his mouth, but no words come out.

"Breathe, Tony," Pepper murmurs, stroking his arm, and he shudders, trying to comply. "You're safe, okay? Inhale, two, three, four. Exhale, two, three, four. He'll be fine. Let's give him some more space. George, go get some water."

"Yes, Ms. Potts."

Forty five minutes later, he's huddled in Pepper's office, half-buried in the enormous fluffy blanket she's kept in there for nearly a year, with Pepper coaxing him to take little sips of his cup of water. He's barely sitting up, swaying where he sits, trying to form apologies even as his voice refuses to cooperate.

"Angry," he finally manages, and Pepper sighs, tugging him into a firm hug.

"Yes, Tony. But not at you, okay? Never at you."

"S' my fault. M'sorry."

"No." Her grip tightens. "No, Tony. This is not your fault, okay? Don't blame yourself for this." Tony shakes his head, and she exhales softly, pulling the blanket tighter around him. "I'm gonna go get you some more water, okay? I'll be right back."

* * *

Pepper Potts is not a forgiving person.

Certainly, she's not the type to hold grudges. Being CEO of Stark Industries doesn't allow much time to hold them, especially as of late. After the mess with the Accords, she'd been far too busy trying to keep the company from going under, fighting against the miles of negativity and sneering from the general public that hated Tony and everything to do with him. If it wasn't "Tony Stark signed the Accords" or "Tony Stark is terrorizing the good heroes of the world", it was "Tony Stark hurt good old Captain America" or "Tony Stark destroyed the Avengers". Sometimes, it was even "Tony Stark used to sell weapons", "Tony Stark is a womanizer", or even simply "Tony Stark is an asshole". It was endless, it seemed, and despite all of Pepper's efforts, Stark Industries has fallen so low that bankruptcy is fast becoming the only future for the corporation.

Pepper is used to dealing with Tony's antics, but he was not a bad man. She knows that better than anyone else. He didn't deserve a fate like this—to die with nothing, not a penny or a friend. He was frustrating and he drank too much and he'd dumped her and he still threw himself into battle despite knowing how it was hurting him, hurting her—and she wasangry. But not at Tony. Never at Tony.

She remembers the look on Tony's face when the doctors had told him his fate, the utter hopelessness when he learned that the damage to his heart from the fight at the outpost was permanent, that without the strength of the arc reactor, he wouldn't last more than a few years. She'd watched as he'd given up, throwing himself into his work, and then into trying to save his company and the Avengers, and she saw him now, time ticking. She knows he thinks she hasn't found crumpled drafts of the will he's been trying to write for months new. She's not stupid—dating or not, she knows how much he's left her, or at least, what little he has left. She has watched him break, and has broken herself, knowing there is nothing she can do to stop it.

Pepper doesn't hate anyone, never has and likely never will, but she has never been so close as she is now, and the thought of Steven Grant Rogers makes her want to pull out her hair and scratch at her skin and scream.

Now, several hours after calming Tony down from yet another panic attack and putting him to bed, she's back in her office, nursing a light headache. More than anything, he wants to track Rogers down herself and force him to look at everything he's done. To Tony. To her.

Not that it would matter, Pepper thinks bitterly. She clenches the pen in her hand a little tighter, ignoring the way it creaks ominously in her grip. You can't force a person to care about what they've done to someone else.

There's a knock on her door, and Jose pokes his head in. "Ms. Potts? Colonel Rhodes here to speak with you."

"Thanks, Jose. Send him in."

Rhodey looks exhausted, grey suit creasing at his elbows, new lines deepening in creases around his eyes. He isn't wearing his legs, so Pepper hurries to his side and lets him take her arm. "James. Something happened, didn't it?"

"Pepper." His grip is tight on his cane, mouth taut. "Yeah, something happened, all right."

"I knew it." She sighs as she leads him over to the couch. "I sent T'Challa up to speak with Tony, and he came down panicking. What—what did he say?"

"Nothing good." Rhodey massages his temples, taking a deep breath. "Sergeant Barnes is returning to New York."

"What?" The air seems to flee from the room then, and she swallows, realizing she has risen to her feet. "Why?"

"Apparently," Rhodey sighs, "there have been sightings of Captain Rogers and his accomplices near the facility where Sergeant Barnes was being held. For security reasons, the World Security Council has decided to remove him from Wakanda and place him in S.H.I.E.L.D. custody."

"Oh, God." Pepper sinks back down, hand coming to rest in a tight fist on the arm of the couch. Of course.

Rhodey laughs bitterly. "I can't believe this. After everything that's happened—everything that they did to Tones, they're going to bring him back." Pepper rubs his arm with trembling hands. "Tony's made a lot of mistakes, but he doesn't deserve this. Not now."

They sit in silence for a moment, Pepper staring at her hands and gnawing at her lower lip. Rhodey clears his throat.

"We got a message from headquarters." Pepper looks up. "Miles Morales came in looking for Tony. He says he's willing to join the team."

* * *

 **Miles Morales is canon MCU Spider-Man and no one can tell me differently.**

 **Comments and criticisms are appreciated.**


	2. Nota Bene

**Warning: sexual content.**

 **Summary: Steve longs, Kamala mopes, Clint reminisces, and Miles just tries not to be too awkward.**

* * *

After Steve's mother died, Bucky used to keep him warm at night.

He'd always had problems with maintaining his body heat, even as a child, swinging between running dangerously high fevers and his body turning to ice. What blankets they had were threadbare, worn through from years of use, and so the night after his mother's funeral, Bucky crawled into bed with him, shaking his head when Steve had tried to protest and covering Steve's body with his own.

Bucky was heavy. Unlike Steve, he'd been big, with broad shoulders, long arms, and thick thighs. Even as they grew older and Bucky became leaner, willowy with feline grace, he'd retained a sort of stocky charm, solid and warm as a hot summer day. Steve can't count on his fingers and toes the icy winter nights he would have died, unable to keep himself warm in the harsh, thundering cold.

Steve remembers one night in particular, before the serum, before Dr. Erskine. Before the ice.

Like all nights, Bucky had ignored Steve's half-hearted protests and boxed him in with his arms, face pressed into the raggedy pillows beside Steve's head. Steve remembers shivering at the way Bucky's breath tickled his neck, his ear, big hands tracing absent, feather-light circles up Steve's sides and along his arms. To his embarrassment, he'd felt stirrings in his groin, unable to stop the way he'd hardened as he felt Bucky smirk at his ear, huffing out a breathy laugh.

"So _that's_ why you never let me take you out on dates with any dames," he'd drawled, mouthing his way up Steve's neck with a chuckle.

He'd silenced Steve's stammering apologies with a kiss, slipping a hand Steve's trousers and gripping him tightly in one hand. There had been no more apologies after that, only heat and rippling pleasure arcing up his spine like white-hot bolts of lightning.

After, Bucky stopped pushing Steve to come with him on dates, only dragging him along when they came across a couple of ladies like them, banding together for a night out. Bucky never took him dancing—though Steve used to cast wistful glances at the dance floor, even an innocent dance with his fella would've attracted the wrong kind of attention. Two boys a payment away from living on the streets of Brooklyn would never be equipped to deal with that.

There were nights when they pulled their thin mattress from the hard wooden slats and laid it on the floor with all the blankets, low to the ground so the neighbors couldn't see them through the windows, and Steve had pushed Bucky down on it, straddling him, muffling sharp cries as Bucky snapped his hips up, grunting and red with the effort to keep quiet.

Then Bucky had shipped out to Europe, and then there hadn't been time for anything else, too busy trying to find him, too busy fighting, too busy mourning him after he fell.

After—after the war, after the crash, after everything—Steve had looked Bucky in the eyes, searching, and knew with a sinking gut that Bucky remembered nothing of those few nights when he'd crawled into Bucky's lap, letting him unbutton his shirt and pull it down his shoulders, press kisses up his neck, hot and hard. Instead, he'd seen pain, the anguish of a man who'd been set on fire and had destroyed the world trying to put the flames out. All of that warmth had been ripped away, leaving him crumpled, fractured.

Some days, Steve wishes he could go back, do it all over, slip into Bucky's waiting embrace every day, every night, so that maybe Bucky would have remembered. He'd have cornered him behind tents, snuck out to hotels and brothels with him, broken rule after rule, violated agreements, crawled through hell and back. Anything for Bucky. He would have carved a home there for these memories, in the shared space between them, and even if he failed, he would have so much more to hold close.

In the end, it didn't matter. Bucky hadn't wanted to remember anything. After everything that's happened, Steve can't blame him.

* * *

It's strange to be sitting in a conference room dressed in costume and unmasked, and yet Miles sits stick-straight in a swivel chair across from Iron Man, Black Widow, and Vision, fighting to keep from fidgeting as Secretary Ross reintroduces them.

" … As you know, we are very lucky Mr. Morales has decided to join the team. Unfortunately, Colonel Rhodes remains unavailable, but as you've all already met, I don't believe we need to continue formalities. Mr. Morales?"

"Ah—yes." Miles clears his throat. "I'll be, um, working with you all for, uh, an extended amount of time, so … thank you," he says lamely.

There's a brief pause. Agent Romanoff's expression is blank and unreadable as she looks at him, and Miles can't shake the feeling that she's calculating something. Vision smiles politely at him, inclining his head. Even stuck at headquarters, still under probation, the hero is civil and mild as ever, and Miles can't help but appreciate that.

There was a time when Miles would have sat in here with nearly a dozen of the greatest, most powerful superheroes in existence. Now, that team—or at least, _this side_ of the team, if the rumors were true—is reduced to three of the most controversial.

When he'd first brought up his decision to his parents, his father had reacted as badly as he'd expected, and they'd argued, Miles insisting it was all for the greater good, his father telling him to leave it to 'some other clown in a suit'. His mother had followed him out to the porch when Miles had stormed out of the house and had taken his face in her hands, pressing a firm kiss to his brow and making him promise to come back safely. She'd walked back inside without another word.

Now, with a duffel bag packed, set to reside with the rest of the team at Avengers Tower, he's still not sure whether or not he made the right choice in joining up. It had seemed the only decision at the time, knowing how badly the team would be reduced and overwhelmed with the loss of Iron Man. But the team, or at least how it's currently being run, works in ways Miles will never accept. It's why he's tried so hard to keep his friend Kamala from joining up. Fellow superhero or not, he didn't want her to end up with so much blood on her hands, a painful truth that would surely happen if she became an Avenger.

"Let's go, Underoos." Miles is so lost in thought, he doesn't realize debriefing is over until Tony Stark nudges his shoulder with the back of his hand. "I've been told you need a place to stay and Ross wouldn't let me build you a doghouse."

"Um. Thanks, I guess," Miles mutters under his breath.

"Oh, don't worry," Tony tells him as he leads him from the conference room. "It would've had everything. You'd get your own specially made mattress with Egyptian cotton sheets, my latest TV model, indoor plumbing, of course, and your shower would have to be ... "

Stark keeps jabbering through the entire car ride and all the way up to the top floor of Avengers Tower, describing the hypothetical doghouse with increasing fervor. At first, Miles wonders if maybe Stark really was going to make him live in a doghouse, but as he watches Stark devolve into random mechanical jargon and wild hand gestures, he realizes with a jolt that Stark is _nervous_.

The idea of Tony Stark, renowned genius and business mogul, ever being nervous, is incredibly difficult for Miles to comprehend. Stark is, after all, a man defined by his arrogance, from the confident way he walked to the self-righteous way he fought crime. It's odd to say the least, and so he turns his gaze to the room before him, refusing to dwell on that thought.

Stark Industries, sophisticated as it is, still reeks of home and comfort, its floors filled with plush chairs and sofas, breakrooms with warm light filtering in through the windows. The topmost floors, however, are so entirely different from the rest of the tower that Miles almost wonders if they'd somehow switched buildings. There's no other word for it—the Avengers' ex-headquarters is beautiful, with its white floors and glass windows. There are enormous elevators and spiraling glass stairs with silvery metal railings. Somehow, despite the busy, futuristic design, it doesn't feel cramped or crowded.

Miles can imagine this place bustling with heroes, but now, it feels a little cold, the echoing emptiness a sharp contrast to the bright afternoon light and the the gleaming floors. There had been rumors, before the Accords, that Stark Industries was planning to move to a different location so that the entire tower would belong solely to the Avengers. Miles supposes there's no point now, not with gossip hinting at Stark Industries filing for bankruptcy in the near future, and certainly not with only three—four—Avengers to claim these floors.

"So the main kitchen's on this floor, as is the living room and the dining room. Hangar's to the right and the labs are to the left." Stark leads him up a metal staircase curving up in a graceful arc parallel to the floor-to-ceiling windows. "Your room's on the third floor with Vision. Romanoff's on the floor below, and I'm two floors above you."

The housing floors are markedly different from the rest of the tower, which is all futuristic sophistication and open space. Here, there is a mixture of elegance and of intimacy, warm and muted colors blending with Stark's signature tastes. It's immediately clear that these floors are mean to feel like home. The corridors are wide and expansive, brightly lit and warm. Miles estimates that there are about a dozen rooms on this floor alone; knowing only two of them are in use seems strange and sad.

Stark jabs a finger over his shoulder. "Vision's on that side of the hall. Don't worry about fighting him for bathroom space, you already have your own and I'm not entirely sure he ever pees. Or eats."

Miles nods. "I can pick and choose, right?" He opens the first door. Stark makes an odd sound in the back of his throat, but Miles isn't listening, too busy staring at the interior with interest.

Already, Miles has come to see what an amalgamation the tower is, but this room is different. Everything was clearly Stark's, all his designs, all calculated, but _this_ —someone else entirely could have designed the room. It's traditional and small, with arching windows and white walls with curling accents, the windows smaller and framed in oak. It's barely larger than a college dorm room, the adjoining bathroom leading off to the side. Everything, from the bed to the dressers, the lamps, the ceiling fan and—is that a _radiator_?—is, it seems, designed to look like the inside of a brownstone in Brooklyn, with someone particularly old-fashioned living in it, too.

"Whoa, culture shock," Miles laughs. Stark says nothing, and he glances back at him, freezing at the expression on the man's face. For the barest fraction of a second, there's a stiff, fragile sort of pain there, and then it's gone, replaced by nonchalance.

"Don't worry, Underoos. The rest of the rooms aren't this outdated."He smiles, but it's off somehow. "They've all got much more _style_."

Miles wonders why it's so easy for him to read Stark now. When he'd worked with him before, he'd been narcissistic and rash, then harsh and cynical, and then he hadn't bothered to stick around. He remembers the bitter resignation on Stark's face at Central Park, sees the lines of exhaustion in his stance, and thinks that maybe, Stark is too tired to hold up a facade properly.

"So the rest of the rooms are advanced, huh?" he asks, and Stark grins at him.

* * *

Kamala Khan does not hate Tony Stark.

Really, she doesn't.

Okay, so maybe she had deleted all her superhusband fanfics. Maybe she'd sold all her Iron Man figurines. And maybe she'd torn up his posters. And posted angry rants about him on her Tumblr. And maybe joined a few angry protests outside his building. And sent him a few letters filled with choice phrases.

But that doesn't mean she _hates_ him.

Okay, so maybe she did. Just a little. Who didn't? Signing those Accords was _not_ okay. After the Avengers had deferred to the government, everyone else had taken a leaf out of their book, trying to force the heroes in line. She has her own superhero duties to attend to, after all, and it's a little difficult to fight crime, especially extremely dangerous supervillains, when you're also fending off angry law enforcement officers.

But it's also been three, almost four, years since she started fighting crime. Along with a much better—and, thankfully, wider—set of powers, she's grown used to having to fight in stealth and secrecy. Mastering the ability to sprout wings to fly away or form gills to breath underwater came in handy, especially when simply morphing the size of your body parts wasn't enough to throw the fuzz off your trail. Besides, it was a pretty incredible feat to be attending university here in New York, majoring in Journalism, while still fighting crime. She's a different person now.

And … she's met people. People like Cindy and America and Wade, who, even if they weren't supers and had no idea where she disappeared to late at night, worked so well together, laughing and fighting and talking, fitting like pieces of a puzzle they'd solved. She wants that. She wants to fight alongside people who she can stand beside no matter what and know they have her back.

Who better to talk to than Tony Stark, world-famous superhero with loads of experience, currently recruiting superheroes to join his team?

Okay, so he wasn't her first choice. Not even by a long shot. But finding other superheroes who were willing to form a team, let alone one with her, was difficult these days, especially with people cracking down so hard on them. No one wanted to get caught, even by another hero. And … she needed someone with experience. Preferably someone who could at least help her out a little with her powers, which, while wider and more useful, were starting to change a little more than she knew how to handle.

Because really, what are you supposed to do when you find out you've developed superhuman strength when you shatter your favorite mug and end up having to get stitches? Or when you learn you have superhuman speed and agility in front of an entire crowd of people in the middle of campus? Or that sometimes, when using your powers, your bioluminescence got a little too intense and not only burned through your suit, but wouldn't go out even after you stood under the showerhead for nearly an hour?

Kamala may only be nineteen, but she's mature enough to accept the reality that she lacks discipline, and she can't get that from inexperienced heroes who can't teach her how to fight properly or utilize her evolving powers and cope with them day-to-day, or at the very least help her stop smoking every time she morphed. There's only so much one can teach themselves, after all. And the only one she knew for certain that could help her was Tony Stark. She just had to figure out how to contact him and convince him to let her join up.

Which, as it happened, was a lot harder than it looked when the only connection she has to the guy is through Miles Morales, fellow mutated superhero extraordinaire, who, besides being the most infuriatingly goody-goody friend she'd ever had, was also the most personally acquainted with the Avengers, an excuse he had used multiple times with her in an attempt to keep her from joining the team.

"Trust me," he had told her, shaking his head. "You don't _want_ to. I wasn't even really a part of it, and I couldn't stand being around them for more than a _week_."

And yet she'd found out, less than a week after his latest attempt to convince her not to join up, that Miles had accepted Tony Stark's offer to join the team, which may or may not have something to do with Kamala sitting cross-legged in the East Green, ignoring the monsters that are currently attack it. She stretches her arm out, grabbing one of the strange feathery beasts when it tries to attack her, setting it on fire with a squeeze of its throat.

It's just past noon on a Thursday, so it's understandable why there weren't many heroes around to fend off the little beasts, something Kamala finds herself highly grateful for. The last thing she needs is someone like Silk or Miss America or Deadpool or—ugh—Miles himself to show up and accuse her of pouting, because Kamala Khan does not _pout_.

Really, she isn't pouting. Okay, yes, she's a little upset, but reasonably so, at least this time. After all, of all people, Miles knows how important it is for any hero to train and improve and learn how to wield their gifts, or curses, depending on how you looked at it. She's not about to end up bleeding out in an alley because she didn't know how to defend herself. Honestly, she has just as much potential as he does, so really, she's completely entitled to be at least a little cross with him for standing in the way of her chance at becoming a better hero.

She'd discovered his secret identity the hard way, after she'd tracked down a string of mysterious disappearances near the East River and showed up just in time to watch her friendly neighborhood Spider-Man get slammed into the ground by a sneering masked man who'd seemed to take the costume designs of The Matrix or Resident Evil a little too seriously. Not that she had room to judge, but whatever. Kamala will admit, she may have freaked out a little when she'd taken off his mask—but who wouldn't have if they discovered one of their friends was one of the most famous superheroes this side of the Atlantic?

It was the night that Kamala had discovered her accelerated healing could, to a very limited extent, be transferred to others. It also happened to be the same night she had decided she needed to find a better disguise, considering Miles recognized her _with her mask still on_ and had immediately started chewing her out for doing 'something so dangerous', completely ignoring the fact that technically, she was a year older than him and had probably been a superhero for at least as long.

From high above her, she can hear an electronic _woosh_ , and she glances up just in time to see none other than Iron Man land with a thud on the ground in front of her, knocking out nearly a dozen of the creatures with a blast from his repulsors. "Somebody clear the kid out," she hears him say, tinny and electronic, before he shoots away.

"I'm not a kid," she yells after him, but he's already out of hearing distance, and she watches as he twists in midair to avoid a particularly large beast that seemed intent on taking a chunk out of his side.

There's no time to run after him. Without warning, there are arms locked tight around her waist, and she wheezes as the air is knocked out of her lungs, casting a glare at Miles as he webs them away from East Green at top speed. He's already jabbering away at her her about danger and being careful and _literally everything she already knows without him telling her_.

"—knew you were going to be mad at me, I was going to tell you—" He just barely swerves to avoid a screaming hotdog vendor and her cart, making a sharp right. "—why I keep telling you not to join if you can't—" He launches them both up into the air before swinging them down gently to the ground, and she wriggles out of his grip, rubbing ruefully at her abdomen. "—it's not like I don't think you're—"

She holds a hand up, and he stops. "Okay—first of all," she manages, straightening, "I'm not mad because you're part of the Avengers and I'm not, because seriously, the team isn't as cool without Captain America or the Falcon, if I knew a better option, I'd take it in a heartbeat. I'm _mad_ because this is _my decision_ , and you tried to take control of it. Second of all, you're not the boss of me, I am entitled to decide what I want to do with myself and my life and _you're not_ , being my friend doesn't mean you get to tell me what's right for me and what's isn't."

"I—"

"What's the problem, Underoos?" Iron Man lands besides them both with a heavy thunk. "Half a mile away doesn't count as evacuating the—"

"I," Kamala interrupts, sniffing haughtily, "am not a _kid_ , I'm actually older than, uh, Spider-Man here. Also, since you obviously didn't notice even though I am literally wearing a costume right now, I'm a superhero."

The face shield comes up, and Tony Stark raises his eyebrows at her. "That so? Well, I hate to break it to you, kid, but dressing up like Captain Marvel and moping—"

"I was not _moping_ —"

"—in the middle of the East Green doesn't exactly scream 'superhero'."

"It's Ms. Marvel, first of all, and second of all, I shouldn't have to—"

"I'm glad you've met my friend Ms. Marvel," Miles interrupts hastily, squeezing her arm lightly. "I'm assuming you know who Iron Man is."

Stark sighs. "Yeah, yeah, nice to meet you. Now, if you'll excuse us, Underoos and I—"

"Stark, what's the hold-up?" None other than the Black Widow—in the flesh—appears out of nowhere, brow furrowed in disapproval, sheathing her iconic batons in her belt. Kamala forces herself not to start gushing and end up making a fool of herself.

"Why does everyone keep interrupting me?" Stark grumbles.

"The park's been cleared, we should be reporting back at headquarters. Who's this?"

"Ms. Marvel," Kamala says quickly before Miles or Mr. Stark can say anything, holding out her hand. "I'm the newest addition to your team."

"You're what?" Stark says, Miles groaning in the background.

"Is she serious?" Tony asks Black Widow, who shrugs.

"Yes," Kamala insists, quickly adding, "and I'm prepared for the training it will take to get into shape. I'm legally an adult and I do have some experience, I've been doing this for over four years, so I can be of some use already."

Black Widow regards her for a moment, and Kamala forces herself not to fidget under her gaze. "Let's bring her back to headquarters," she says finally.

" _Really_?" Kamala and Stark say at the same time.

"I don't believe this," Tony says incredulously. "Romanoff—"

"Stark," she says evenly, "she's a witness whose presence is unexplained. That alone raises suspicions. For all we know, she could have caused the disturbance herself."

Kamala blinks. "Wait, _what_? But I'm not—"

"Thank you," Stark says pointedly. "Underoos, you're taking her in. I don't want to argue with this one the entire way there."

"Hey, wait! I—"

But the heroes are already gone, and Miles is clearing his throat, holding his hand out to her awkwardly.

"I … um. Should probably."

Kamala glares at him. "You're buying me pizza," she tells him, taking his hand, and Miles groans.

* * *

Clint's at the refrigerator, poking through the last of the rice balls, when Steve and Sam come in arguing.

Admittedly, they were three weeks old, Scott having bought them from a lonely street vendor back in Tokyo, but it had been a busy few weeks after Steve returned from New York, the fire in his eyes rekindled, and everyone had known exactly what that meant. New York's a nice place, but it's not the best for hiding and keeping out of sight, which makes it painfully difficult to get basic supplies. Which is why Clint's willing to scarf down really old, extremely dry rice, and also why he's already in a bad mood even though it's only eight in the morning.

He'd love to escape and get some fresh air, but Wanda and Scott are already running recon and Sharon's off getting supplies, so Clint moves back to his sleeping bag, snatching up his tablet and skimming through the daily news. The tablet's nowhere near as nice as his old StarkPad—Tony had outfitted that one to include closed captioning on everything and altered the audio on it so he could listen through the hearing aids Tony had made him, not to mention left a couple choice porn websites in the browsing history—but he'd rather try to struggle through watching another Beyoncé video than have to listen to the argument going on in the middle of the kitchen.

They've been stuck in an abandoned apartment building for the past three days, the five of them crammed into a single dusty room, sleeping backs sprawled in a pile on the floor. He's used to the sleeping-on-floors, the lack of food and water, the lack of showering, and running low on supplies—they've been running around fighting missions and evading capture for over a year now—but the arguing is the worst part. Considering they're famouse ex-superheroes that run around nonstop with week-old monster gunk, living in too-tight quarters and avoiding being seen, it isn't surprising how often they argue. Clint tries not to partake in the shouting matches that rival the old days when Steve used to yell at Tony for disobeying orders and/or almost dying, but even he has a breaking point.

" … a horrible idea, and you know it. Look, Steve, I know how much he means to you, but—"

"You don't understand, Sam. He shouldn't be with them, he's been on ice for so long already, and—"

"And the last time he went under, it was his decision! Steve—"

"Because he—he was struggling, but running and hiding from what—happened—"

"That's _his choice_ , Steve, not yours. And we can't handle this right now, not—"

"So Bucky's a _weakness_?"

"That's not what I meant, Steve. You said it yourself, he was struggling. What happens if we're running a mission and he reverts?"

"Sam—"

"What if something happens and you aren't there to shake him out of it? You know he never trusted the rest of us the way he trusts you. One of us could get injured, or he could end up running off."

Clint's had enough—their commotion is starting to interfere with his hearing aids. "Hey, pipe down," he snaps, and Steve and Sam look at him in surprise, as if only just noticing him. Figures. "Both of you are being too loud." He switches to sign, glaring at the two of them. _I'm surprised no one's heard you from across the street. You're going to blow our cover._

Steve sighs, signing back, _Sorry. You're right, Clint._

Clint rolls his eyes and turns his attention back to his tablet. After a mishap with a supervillain three years ago, he'd lost 60% in one ear and 50% in the other, and the other Avengers had all learned sign to communicate with him. Even after Tony had designed him aids that returned nearly all of his hearing and ran on the same element as the arc reactor, they'd continued to use sign, especially after they'd discovered how handy it was to communicate off-comm when a mission required silence.

Much as Clint appreciated the fact that the team had learned sign for him, he was rather less appreciative when he could _feel_ Sam and Steve signing furiously at each other, the joints of their hands practically cracking from the speed and ferocity, half-whispering as they mouth at each other.

He misses the days when they'd lived at the Tower, returning from missions to dine together, with Tony already chattering about ordering food from one of his favorite restaurants, like shawarma or curry from that Thai place off 39th. They'd watch movies Steve had missed out on, Bruce cringing through the Star Wars sequels and Clint dutifully reciting lines from Monty Python. He remembers when he and Tony had tried to drag the others to a strip bar, only to find themselves restraining Steve when the super-soldier had started a fight with a handsy asshole picking on one of the dancers. He remembers the time Nat had rudely awakened him by shooting a paintball at his face before running off to join an hours-long battle with the rest of the tower. He remembers the time Thor had convinced them to try Asgardian alcohol, and Tony woke up naked in Thor's bed, Nat found herself in one of the air ducts, and Clint came to on the roof with a nasty sunburn. They'd found Steve and Thor in the kitchen, pouring a glass of orange juice and chatting animatedly with Bruce, utterly unaffected.

Those were the good days, when Steve had smiled and Thor wasn't off saving the galaxy and he could be there for Nat when she woke up from nightmares, calming her down and coaxing her back to sleep. Instead, he's in a dilapidated old apartment with two arguing team members, cold and still a little hungry. He knows he hadn't left things well with Tony—thinking about what he'd said to his friend still made him feel guilty—but right now, he'd give a lot just for everyone to be back in the Tower. Admittedly, he'd been surprised that Nat hadn't simply chosen to join them, considering both himself and the good Captain had been prepared to accept her into the fold with open arms, but seeing how well she maneuvers between the factions, between Tony and Steve ... well, Clint can't help but feel a little jealous. Only a little.

Clint hears the door close with a click and realizes the Sam and Steve have stopped breaking their arms trying to sign at each other. Sam's at the counter, pinching the bridge of his nose, shoulders hunched in defeat.

"So, I guess the plan's still on, then?" Clint asks, and Sam sighs in frustration.

* * *

 **nat and bruce never happened and clint doesn't have a wife and kids what are you talking about ahahaaa**

 **Also, I am not part of the deaf community. If anyone is, or knows of someone who's willing to talk with me, I'm completely open to any advice or information you could give me.**

 **Comments and criticisms are appreciated.**


	3. Amor Vincit Omnia

**Summary: Tony plans, Sharon and Wanda have a moment, and T'Challa and Natasha do some damage control.**

* * *

"Seventy to sixty-four," Clint crows as the team reenters the tower, stretching his arms and exhaling with a laugh. It's been a long day, full of large purple rodents storming through Brisbane, but they're finally back at the Tower, just in time for dinner. Steve is still at the compound with Wanda and Sam, who are on report duty, but the rest have returned early to the Tower to rest. It's Friday, after all, which means Movie Night, and they're only halfway through their DC superhero marathon. "Ready to give up yet, Stark?"

"In your dreams, Merida," Tony calls, suit disabling smoothly. He's got a nasty cut on his cheek that's only barely covered by a bandage, a weak attempt at medical care to replace yet another post-mission infirmary visit. "And it's sixty-four to _sixty-nine_ , thank you very much." Clint grins at Tony as he heads into the kitchen, and Tony rolls his eyes. "Maturity, Barton," he tells him.

Nat's already in the kitchen, leaning against the metal countertop and sipping a glass of orange juice. "S' little rich, coming from you, Tony." She smirks at him through her glass as Tony huffs.

"First of all, that's my orange juice, I never said I was sharing it, and second of all, I am the _pinnacle_ —"

"Of what? Stubbornness?" Rhodey chimes in, raising an eyebrow, and Tony narrows his eyes. "Hey, we should order out from Vinny's."

"We had Italian two nights ago," Barton grumbles. "Besides, I'm in the mood for Vietnamese."

"We haven't had shawarma in a while," Natasha muses. "And it's delivery, so we wouldn't have to pick it up."

"We did get interrupted in _Green Lantern_ ," Rhodey notes, accepting a glass of orange juice from Natasha. "If we pick up where we left off now, I bet we could get through _Man of Steel_."

Clint wrinkles his nose, shaking his head. "Or we could just skip the rest of _Green Lantern_. Hey, did you hear they're planning a Wonder Woman movie?"

"Why are you all stealing my orange juice?" Tony demands. He grabs the carton from Natasha's hands. "What—it's half empty!"

"It's good orange juice," Natasha tells him, cocking her head and smiling with false innocence, and he glowers at her.

Sam and Wanda return nearly two hours before Steve does, joining the rest on the couch a third of the way through The Dark Knight Rises after grabbing shawarma from the kitchen. Clint spends the entire time either criticizing the hand-to-hand combat techniques or stuffing his face with lamb and carabeef, while Vision whispers comments to Wanda who nods along absently and smiles, only half-listening. Before they're a third of the way through Man of Steel, Tony's fallen asleep on the couch, slouched against Rhodey's shoulder until Rhodey excuses himself to go to bed.

When Steve finally enters the common area, all but Clint and Tony have gone to bed, Clint snoring in the recliner with popcorn on his stomach and Tony curled up in a ball on the couch under Natasha's jacket. The television is looping through the play screen of _Man of Steel_ , and when Steve switches it off, Clint jerks awake with a grumble.

"Wuzzgoinon?" He blinks up at Steve, then groans, rubbing at his eyes. "Hey, Cap. What time is it?"

"About two in the morning," Steve replies. "You have a little … " He gestures to his cheek.

Clint wipes at his face, sniffing. "Huh. Well, I'm off to bed." He glances at Tony, who's twitching, mumbling slightly. "I'm not dragging him to bed this time. Night, Steve."

"I didn't think you would," Steve says, corner of his mouth crooking up in a smile. "Good night, Clint."

Tony doesn't wake when Steve kneels by his side, still muttering, brow furrowed. "Tony? Tony, it's two in the morning."

"Hrmmngh?" Tony jerks awake, staring at Steve with wide eyes. "Mm, Steve. You're back." He yawns, rubbing at his eyes, and winces when the gesture tugs at the cut on his face.

"Tony, your cheek," Steve chastises, sighing. "You should have gotten that looked at by medical."

"What?" Tony frowns, blinking. "No, no, I took care of it."

Steve sighs. "I know, Tony. You should be in your own bed."

"Right, right." His brows furrow as he yawns, and curls away from Steve, settling back into the cushions of the sofa. "Later. I'll … " He trails off, and is silent. Steve watches him, mouth curling in exasperated amusement as Tony begins to snore.

Yet again, it's clear there's no way he's going to convince Tony to wake up long enough to stumble back to bed, so Steve scoops him up easily, shifting so that Tony's face planted in his chest. Tony doesn't even shift, only mutters something about orange juice and aliens. "FRIDAY? Is Tony's room unlocked?"

"It is now, Captain."

"Thank you." He looks down at Tony as he carries him. It seems every time he catches Tony asleep, he notices something different, like how much younger he looks or how Tony has a cowlick near the back of his head that even gel won't keep down. This time, he notices how Tony curls towards him when he lays him in his bed and tugs his sheets over him.

Absently, he reaches out and squeezes Tony's arm lightly, then leaves, heading back to the common area to clean up the mess of wrappers and food the others had left behind.

* * *

The DVD casing is coated with a fine layer of dust, and Tony runs his hand over it, brushing it off. _Man of Steel_ hasn't been touched for over two years now, along with the majority of the other DVDs Tony owns.

If he sits still, closes his eyes, he can almost feel the pressure of Rhodey settling close on one side, one arm resting comfortably behind his shoulders. He can hear Clint laughing with Sam, can see Natasha rolling her eyes from where she's curled up in the armchair, watching with with a sort of quiet amusement. Wanda and Vision are the only two really watching, Wanda clutching a mug of tea tightly in her hands and Vision periodically murmuring comments that make Wanda smile.

Tony stares at the DVD for a long moment, then drops it into the collection of black trash bags with the rest of the DVDs, all his CDs and his record collection. He's still not sure what he's going to do with any of it—maybe give them away, maybe sell them. More likely than not, they will end up in the trash, forgotten. To be honest, Tony doesn't know anyone who would take them. Not from him.

There's no place for them here. Not anymore.

"Boss? I've collected the rest of the blueprints and preliminary designs for each of the suits."

Tony clears his throat. "Good job, FRIDAY. Write them in, will you? To—Rhodey. No one else. Make sure to include that."

"Of course, Boss." A slight pause. "Boss? There is still the matter of Captain Rogers' shield."

Tony stills, body stiff, breath caught in his throat. It's sitting somewhere in his lab, tucked away in a corner where he can't see it. "Right. No, of course." Tony swallows past the lump in his throat. "I'm sure Romanoff will know what to do with it."

"Yes, Boss. You have two messages from Colonel Rhodes and three from Ms. Potts. You have an appointment with Dr. Cho in two hours."

"Got it." Tony rises to his feet. "Protocol Clean Up Time, all right? Stick these in the garage if we're running low on space." He hesitates, shifting, then exhales. "FRIDAY?"

"Sir?"

"The shield—repaint it. You know, freshen it up a little. Sure Romanoff would appreciate it."

"Yes, Boss."

After the fight at the outpost, no one came for Tony. Not for the first twenty-four hours, at least. Rhodey was recovering, Vision was confined to the compound, Natasha was fleeing, and T'Challa had taken Zemo, Steve, and Sergeant Barnes back to Wakanda. And the rest—the rest hated him. When medical finally arrived at the outpost, Tony was half-dead from the cold and his injuries. With his suit destroyed, there was nothing to keep the cold from coming in, and he'd passed out from the pain of several broken bones, fractured ribs, and a badly bruised lung.

By the time he was well enough to stay awake longer than a half hour, he had spent nearly a month recuperating. Rhodey, still recovering himself, hadn't been able to visit, Pepper was busy trying to fend off numerous angry government officials, Vision was under house arrest, and Natasha had disappeared, and so Tony had recovered alone.

He'd expected it—he wasn't worth the concern, really, so as lonely as he'd felt, staring up at the blank white ceilings of the compound hospital, sometimes for hours, he accepted it readily. What was far harder to accept was the fact that after the damage it had sustained at the outpost, his heart was, quite literally, broken, struggling to pump enough blood to the rest of his body. It had been weak already, never truly healing even after the shrapnel had been removed and the arc reactor discarded, but after, well, taking so many nasty hits, not even the best medication could help it recover.

When it became apparent that he wasn't going to live for much longer, he'd stopped seeing doctors. He'd done enough, after all—there wasn't much reason to stay alive when you kept making things worse. The only problem was keeping the company afloat, though he was sure it would rise back to the top again after he passed, and making sure the Avengers would still be around once they didn't have to put up with him anymore.

He hadn't planned on telling anyone; it was easier that way, and he would have gotten away with it, too, if Rhodey hadn't caught on that something was wrong and snooped through his files. After, he, Pepper, and Happy had made Tony promise to seek out medical help, refusing to speak to Tony about wills and funeral plans, so Tony kept that a secret, allowing them to drag in the best private doctors, all of whom told him the same thing: he was dying, and nothing was going to change that.

He still hasn't told them that the others are in his will, too, enough money set aside for each of them to keep them happy long into retirement. He knows Rhodey would be furious and Pepper would be livid, but Tony couldn't help himself—after everything he's screwed up, it's not enough, never will be, but it's all he knows how to give.

Tony remembers the first time he'd been dying, when the arc reactor was poisoning him just as it was keeping him alive, slowly and painfully. He remembers being reckless and drinking and sleeping around, trying to forget, to cross things off his bucket list. Now, he can barely imagine doing the same again, not when he has so much he has to protect before he leaves it all behind, not when he finds he can't accept the pity of anyone sympathetic enough to sleep with him, not when some part of him won't break the promise he made to Steve to stop drinking. Not when he's different—not better, he's not foolish enough to think someone like him could ever get better. Just not so self-absorbed and selfish enough to hurt the people foolish enough to care about him.

* * *

There's a thin layer of dust covering everything in the apartment building, and Wanda coughs as it swirls into the air, hands firm and gaze trained in concentration at her current of energy that crackles and sparks before her, twisting her fingers. It expands, shaping itself into intricate patterns as it swells, swirling around her and humming. She begins to float, feet dangling off the ground, but she pays her position no mind, eyes narrowing as she wriggles her fingers.

Her projection changes color and shape from its original, gaseous red to liquid gold, then green that arcs like lightning, then little blue wisps like snowflakes tumbling through the air.

There's a knock on the door, and Wanda starts, landing hard on her feet; the wisps shivering for a moment before she refocuses her control. "Come in," she calls.

"Am I intruding?" Sharon leans up against the doorframe, arms crossed, the corner of her mouth curled in a half-smile. She looks good, Wanda notes distractedly, white t-shirt clinging loosely to her curves under her black jacket, grey sweats tucked into combat boots. The ex-SHIELD agent moves off the frame, jamming her thumbs into her pockets. "You know, it's more efficient to spar with someone else than it is to be running alone."

"Hand-to-hand is … different." Wanda turns her focus back to the sizzling pulse of energy hissing between her fingers. "It is better to practice alone for this. There is … less chance for." She pauses, forcing her hands to remain steady. "Collateral damage."

"That why you're hiding on the other side of the building?" Unable to stop her, Wanda watches out of the corner of her eye as Sharon moves closer, casual with a sort of trained grace. "Then, wouldn't it be better to practice with someone else close by?" Sharon's at her ear now, voice low and calming.

"I do not want to be distracted," Wanda manages, and Sharon laughs lightly. The sound makes the orb in her hands tremble and hiss, and Wanda flinches, letting it disperse, hands falling to her side. Sharon doesn't even flinch.

There's a hand on her shoulder, and Wanda turns towards Sharon, avoiding the steady, unrelenting gaze aimed straight at her face. "Sweetheart, there's a lot more distractions in battle than there will be with me here watching you."

"Is there something you need?" Wanda asks, shifting uncomfortably. "I really must—"

"Come on, Wanda," Sharon soothes. "I'm not here to fuss over you like Clint or harass you like Scott. I'd rather be down here than have to listen to Sam rant about Cap's _undying love_ for his old flame."

"Ah." Wanda nods in understanding. These past few weeks, after returning wild-eyed from meeting with Agent Romanoff with the news of the Soldier's return to America, the good Captain has been in a frenzy, insisting that they "rescue" his "friend" from SHIELD's hands.

Wanda opens her mouth, hesitates. "This—plan of his, it is." Wanda shifts uncomfortably.

"Not a good idea?" Sharon finishes. "You're right, it's not. It's rash and poorly thought out and makes little sense. But it's for Bucky."

"They will be expecting us. I know Tony—he does what he thinks is right, and does not stop to consider other options."

"You don't think he's still angry?"

"He does not forgive anyone, especially himself. If Mr. Barnes were to escape …"

"He'd blame himself and then refuse to stop until he captures him?" Sharon smirks. "Stubborn guy. Wow, wonder who that sounds like."

Wanda can't help herself—she giggles, shaking her head. "They do hold many similar traits, even if they do not wish to admit it to themselves."

"Wish Cap would've let me be the one to talk to Nat this time," Sharon sighs. "I'm sure if he'd heard the news from T'Challa directly, he would have taken it a little better. Oh!" She starts, then laughs, digging through her pockets. "I didn't just come down here to talk your ear off." Sharon pulls a burrito out of her pocket and hands it to Wanda. "You like green chili, right?"

Wanda frowns. "Yes. Um. How—how did you fit that in your pocket?"

Sharon grins at her, flipping her jacket outwards so Wanda can see the extra cloth that lines it. "One of my brothers taught me how to alter my jackets. When most of your clothes have those ridiculous fake pockets, you learn to adapt." She wriggles her fingers, and Wanda smiles. "Go on, eat."

It's still warm, and the green chili is incredible—just spicy enough to make her eyes water, but not enough that she can't taste the potatoes or the cheese. "Pretty good, right?"

Wanda nods fervently, barely maintaining the propriety to not stuff her face. Sharon laughs at her expression, shaking her head. "Don't forget to breathe, kid."

Wanda swallows. "This is … much better than old balls of rice."

"S'why I got us new food. I'm pretty sure I'm not the only one that was about to break a wall if we had to eat any more of those."

There's a moment of silence, then: "It reminds me of the chili Sam used to make," Wanda admits. "Before—before the Accords, we used to go back to Tony's tower after missions and eat dinner together. Sometimes, we would watch movies together."

"Sounds nice," Sharon notes. "Didn't you live at the compound?"

Wanda nods. "But we were all offered a place to stay in the tower. Most of us moved back and forth between the two, but I preferred the compound. More … privacy, I suppose. So, you have a brother?" Wanda asks, and Sharon taps her nose.

"Two, both older. I think they're both in Milan for a fashion show. One's designing and one's modeling." She sighs wistfully. "Sometimes I wish I had as much glamour in one of their bones in my whole body. Ah, c'est la vie. What—" She cuts herself off. "I'm sorry, that was—"

"No, it's fine." Wanda smiles, if a little sadly. "My brother and I did not spend much time playing, but sometimes, we would bring a football to a field just outside the city and kick it around. There were these two rocks we had as a goal post, and when we were done, we would sit on them and look down at our city." She looks down. "Sometimes we would bring lunch."

Sharon reaches out and takes Wanda's hand, squeezing it tightly. "That's beautiful, Wanda," she says softly, and Wanda smiles at her. "I know I can't replace your brother, but if you ever need anything—"

Wanda smiles at Sharon. "I would like to spend time with you even if I did not need something."

There's a knock on the door frame. "Hey, my two favorite ladies who also happen to be like two of the only ladies I've spoken to in like two years," Scott says, wandering into the room. "Wow, it's really dusty in here. Am I interrupting something? Like, a really personal bonding moment?"

"Yes, but it's too late for you now," Sharon quips, and Wanda huffs out a laugh beside her. "I assume you managed to escape Sam's tirade?" Scott groans.

"I would've been quicker, except he was signing everything, so I had to be that much quieter," he gripes. "Clint looked like he was going to murder me since I wasn't taking him with me. Hey, do you have any more of those burritos?"

"Sorry, Scott. The rest are for rationing." Sharon slips an arm around Wanda's shoulder. "I think we still have a few rice balls left, though."

"Are you kidding me?" Scott grumbles. "Hey, I actually didn't come in here to bother you about food. Like I usually do. Cap wants us up there to go over strategies so we can rescue his boyfriend."

"Here we go," Sharon sighs, rolling her eyes at Wanda, and Wanda giggles, taking Sharon's outstretched hand. "C'mon, kid. We've got _plans_ to listen to."

* * *

For the short time the Avengers sought refuge in Wakanda, the sovereign nation had been beautiful, with its high, misty mountains and clear, rippling streams, but none of the heroes had been able to give up what they perceived as their duties for long, and so they'd left after only a few months, learning how to resolve each conflict quickly and quietly before authorities appeared to bring them in. T'Challa, of course, ensured that they were welcome should they ever need to seek refuge again, but for the past several months, each time they left the safety of Wakanda, it became increasingly difficult to return. Even if Tony had never come after them, despite the factions just catching sight of each other now and then, many authorities had no qualms in banding together to chase the renegades across borders.

"I cannot hold them off for too long," T'Challa had warned Steve. Wakanda, like the handful of countries that still welcomed Steve's team, had not yet faced consequences for allowing them to take refuge, but T'Challa had spent months trying to keep Bucky's location a secret, and one could only avoid suspicion for so long.

Unlike the others, T'Challa had not only disapproved of the team's split, but of their utter lack of attempts at reconciliation. The world needed the Avengers, certainly, and the two separate teams would be better as one, but more than this, T'Challa could not stand to see so much anger mistrust and fear rule friends so strongly that they could not work together even with a common goal.

T'Challa had spent long months working closely with Agent Romanoff to encourage the repair. She'd agreed to rejoin Stark's team and support him in his time of need rather than join the captain as she had originally planned, and T'Challa had done his part by keeping the captain and his team out of the hands of international authorities and working with his scientists to find a way to erase Mr. Barnes' conditioning. Nearly two years later, however, Agent Romanoff still expressed concerns that Stark would never trust the captain and his team enough to work with them as closely as they once had, and T'Challa still had not found a way to permanently erase what H.Y.D.R.A. had done to James.

Certainly, they had their small triumphs—while Stark was shaken even now by the events that had taken place, he seemed to harbor little ill will towards the captain and his friends, only sadness and a deep loneliness hidden through false arrogance. Better yet, despite their lack of progress on a permanent solution, T'Challa had found minor ways to reduce the effects of the conditioning. It had taken time and a few omitted truths, but Agent Romanoff had managed to convince Stark that Sergeant Barnes, while in his custody, was neither free to leave at any time nor that they were, eventually, intending to wake him back up. Everything seemed to fall to pieces, however, when T'Challa had been unable to speak to Captain Rogers about turning his friend to S.H.I.E.L.D. custody, something he finds himself regretting deeply.

At first, the captain had stormed into his palace with a fire in his eyes, demanding to know why T'Challa had allowed Bucky to fall into Tony's hands. He hadn't understood that it was the only way to fend off the demands of many countries and prevent discord, if not war. Much as T'Challa had hesitated, S.H.I.E.L.D. was the only organization prepared to keep Barnes safe rather than incarcerate the man. And certainly, it wasn't as if he hadn't intended to speak to the captain about it—he'd only made the hasty decision after a confrontation with Secretary Ross and a handful of countries more far more powerful than Wakanda, who seemed not only to be fully aware of his involvement in keeping Sergeant Barnes hidden in Wakanda, but his location and how to take Barnes away. By that time, the captain had already been in New York and had spoken to Agent Romanoff, who'd informed the captain of his decision before T'Challa had gotten a chance to tell him himself.

Worse still, Steve still didn't seem to comprehend the depths of Stark's terror, not only of Sergeant Barnes, but of Steve himself—he didn't understand how when T'Challa had gone to inform him about Barnes, he had seen the newborn fear that accompanied the resignation, the despair that had far outweighed what little fury that still lingered. In that moment, he know: nothing on Earth could move Stark to come within a mile of either super-soldier again.

Still, Steve hadn't listened, only paced back and forth, eyes wild. "If Tony gets his hands on him—"

"He will not," T'Challa had told him. "Captain, you have not spoken with Mr. Stark in a very long time. I assure you, making contact with Mr. Barnes is the furthest thing from his mind."

"I can't take that risk." Steve had shaken his head, frantic, shaking T'Challa off.

"I know how much you love him," T'Challa had said, gently as he could, "but you cannot let this blind you again. You and Mr. Stark have spent two years out of contact and allowed your past conflict to run its course. Do not let this ruin what little chance you have left at reconciliation."

"T'Challa, I _can't_ ," Steve had whispered, voice raw and harsh, and with that, the captain had left, gathering his team and returning to the United States to save his friend from a false threat that would surely only end in disaster.

Now, T'Challa paced in the quiet solitude of his home, awaiting Agent Romanoff's call. He respected the captain and his friends deeply, but he was certain of one thing: should they succeed in reclaiming Sergeant Barnes, the Avengers would never reunite as they once had.

"Your Highness?" Agent Romanoff's face appears on his screen. Her eyes are shadowed and her face is lined with exhaustion, but she smiles at him nonetheless.

"Agent Romanoff," T'Challa exhales, running a hand over his scalp. "It is good to hear from you again."

"The pleasure is mine, and it's _Natasha_ ," she tells him. "Listen, Your Highness, don't feel guilty about telling Steve. It's my fault for telling him before you could."

T'Challa shakes his head. "He would have learned the truth no matter whom he had heard it from. You know he assumes Stark will attempt to keep him from taking his friend."

Natasha chuckles under her breath, grinning weakly. "I'm not sure Tony would even be there to stop him. He barely spends more time than necessary in the compound, and Bucky's at least a dozen levels beneath the surface."

T'Challa sighs. "I've tried to reason with him, but he doesn't accept that his friend does not wish to be woken. I've barely made any progress in erasing the brainwashing. If I do not have a permanent solution, Barnes will not want to remain conscious. He is still convinced that he is too dangerous."

"Why am I surrounded by idiots?" Natasha pinches the bridge of her nose. "Okay. Obviously, nothing is going to keep Steve from Bucky. So, the only course of action is to keep Tony from the compound."

T'Challa nods, crossing his arms. Much as he hates to admit it, there are no walls, no blockades, no armies they could put in place; if it was for Sergeant Barnes, Steve would find a way. "What do you need me to do?"

* * *

 **Comments and criticisms are appreciated.**


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